THIRTEEN 12 page

Wolgast looked at him, his bland midwestern face. “Thought we’d lost you,” he said. “We were just coming to look for you.”

Doyle glanced quickly over his shoulder toward the beer tent. “Well, you know,” he said. “Got caught up in a little conversation.” He smiled, a little guiltily. “Nice folks around here. Real talkers.” He gestured at Wolgast’s water-stained slacks. “What happened to you? You’re all wet.”

For a moment, Wolgast said nothing. “Puddles.” He did his best not to look away, to hold Doyle in his gaze. “The rain.” There was one other chance, maybe, if he could somehow distract Doyle on the way to the Tahoe. But Doyle was younger and stronger, and Wolgast had left his weapon back in the car.

“The rain,” Doyle repeated. He nodded, and Wolgast saw it in the younger man’s face: he knew. He’d known all along. The beer tent was a test, a trap. He and Amy had never been out of sight, not for a second. “I see. Well, we have a job to do. Right, chief?”

“Phil—”

“Don’t.” His voice was quiet—not menacing, merely stating the facts. “Don’t even say the words. We’re partners, Brad. It’s time to go.”

All Wolgast’s hopefulness collapsed inside him. Amy’s hand was still in his; he couldn’t bear even to look at her. I’m sorry, he thought, sending her this message through his hand. I’m sorry. And together, Doyle following five paces behind them, they moved through the exit toward the parking lot.

Neither of them noticed the man—the off-duty Oklahoma state trooper who, two hours before, had seen the wire report on a girl kidnapped by two Caucasian males at the Memphis Zoo, before clocking out and heading off to the high school to meet his wife and watch his kids ride the bumper cars—following them with his eyes.

NINE

I was called … Fanning.

All that day the words sat on his lips: when he awoke at eight, as he bathed and dressed and ate his breakfast and sat on the bed in his room, flipping through the channels and smoking Parliaments, waiting for the night to come. All day long, this was what he heard:

Fanning. I was called Fanning.

The words meant nothing to Grey. The name wasn’t one he knew. He’d never met anybody named Fanning, or anything like Fanning, not that he could remember. Yet somehow, while he’d slept, the name had taken up residence in his head, as if he’d gone to sleep listening to a song played over and over, the lyrics digging a rut into his brain like a plow, and now part of his mind was still in that rut and couldn’t get out. Fanning? What the hell? It made him think of the prison shrink, Dr. Wilder, and the way he’d led Grey down into a state deeper than sleep, the room he called forgiveness, with the slow tap-tap-tap of his pen on the table, the sound snaking inside him. Now Grey couldn’t pick up the channel changer or scratch his head or light a smoke without hearing the words, their syncopating rhythm building a backbeat to every little thing he did.

I(flick) … was(light) … called(draw) … Fanning(exhale).

He sat and smoked and waited and smoked some more. What the hell was wrong with him? He felt different, and the change was no good. Antsy, out of sync with himself. Usually he could just sit still and do virtually nothing while he let the hours pass—he’d learned to do that well enough in Beeville, letting whole days slip by in a kind of thoughtless trance—but not today. Today he was jumpy as a bug in a pan. He tried to watch TV, but the words and the images didn’t even seem related to each other. Outside, beyond the windows of the barracks, the afternoon sky looked like old plastic, a washed-out gray. Gray like Grey. A perfect day to snooze away the hours. Yet here he was, sitting on the edge of his unmade bed, waiting for the afternoon to be over, his insides buzzing like a paper harmonica.

He felt like he hadn’t slept a wink, too, though he’d somehow snoozed straight through his alarm at 05:00 and missed his morning shift. It was OT, so he could make up some excuse—that it was all a mix-up or he’d simply forgotten—but he was going to hear about it either way. He was on again at 22:00. He really needed to nap, to store up some shut-eye for another eight hours of watching Zero watching him.

At 18:00 he pulled on his parka to walk across the compound to the commissary. Sunset was an hour off but the clouds were hanging low, sponging up the last of the light. A damp wind cut through him as he trudged across the open field between the barracks and the dining hall, a cinder-block building that looked like it had been built in a hurry. He couldn’t see the mountains at all, and on days like this it sometimes felt to Grey as if the compound were actually an island—that the world came to a stop, tipping into a black sea of nothingness, somewhere beyond the end of the long drive. Vehicles came and went, delivery trucks and step vans and Army five-tons loaded with supplies, but the place they came from and then went back to, wherever that was, might have been the moon for all Grey knew. Even his memory of the world was beginning to fade. He hadn’t been past the fence line in six months.

The commissary should have been busy at this hour, fifty or more bodies filling the room with heat and noise, but as he stepped through the door, unzipping his parka and stamping the snow off the soles of his shoes, Grey surveyed the space and saw just a few people scattered at the tables, alone and in small groups, not more than a dozen all told. You could tell who did what by what they wore—the med staff in their scrubs and rubber clogs; the soldiers in their winter camos, hunched over their trays and scooping the food into their mouths like farmhands; the sweeps in their UPS-brown jumpsuits. Behind the dining hall there was a lounge with a ping-pong table and air hockey, but nobody was playing or watching the big-screen television either, and the room was quiet, just a few murmuring voices and the clink of glass and flatware. For a while the lounge had held some tables with computers, sleek new vMacs for email and whatnot, but one morning in the summer, a tech crew had wheeled them all out on a dolly, right in the middle of breakfast. Some of the soldiers had complained, but it hadn’t done any good; the computers never returned, and all that remained to say they’d been there were a bunch of wires dangling from the wall. Taking them away had been some kind of a punishment, Grey figured, but he didn’t know what for. He’d never bothered with the computers himself.

Despite the nervous feeling in his body, the smell of warm food made him hungry—the Depo gave him such a voracious appetite it was a wonder he wasn’t heavier than he was—and he filled his tray as he moved down the line, his mind savoring the thought of the meal to come: a bowl of minestrone, salad with croutons and cheese, mashies and pickled beets, a slab of ham with a ring of dried-out pineapple sitting on it like a citrus tiara. He topped it all off with a wedge of lemon pie and a tall glass of ice water and carried everything back to the corner to an empty table. Most of the sweeps ate alone like he did; there wasn’t much you were allowed to actually talk about. Sometimes a whole week would pass without Grey saying so much as boo to anyone except the sentry on L3 who clocked him in and out of Containment. There had been a time, not that many months ago in fact, when the techs and medical staff would ask him questions, things about Zero and the rabbits and the teeth. They’d listen to his answers, nodding, maybe jot something down on their handhelds. But now they just picked up the reports without a word, as if the whole matter of Zero had been settled and there was nothing new to learn.

Grey moved through his meal methodically, course by course. The Fanning thing was still running through his mind like a news crawl, but eating seemed to calm it some; for a few minutes he almost forgot it was there. He was finishing the last of the pie when someone stepped up to his table: one of the soldiers. Grey thought his name was Paulson. Grey had seen him around, though the soldiers had a way of all looking the same in their camos and Tshirts and shiny boots, their hair so short their ears stuck out like somebody had pasted them to the sides of their heads as a joke. Paulson’s cut was so tight Grey couldn’t have said what color his hair really was. He took a chair at right angles to Grey and spun it around to straddle it, smiling at him in a way that Grey wouldn’t have described as friendly.

“You fellows sure like to eat, don’tcha?”

Grey shrugged.

“You’re Grey, right?” The soldier narrowed his eyes. “I’ve seen you.”

Grey put down his fork and swallowed a bite of pie. “Yeah.”

Paulson nodded thoughtfully, like he was deciding if this was a good name or not. His face wore an outward expression of calm, but there was something effortful about this. For a moment his eyes darted to the security camera hanging in the corner over their heads, then found Grey’s face again.

“You know, you fellas don’t say much,” Paulson said. “It’s a little spooky, you don’t mind my saying so.”

Spooky. Paulson didn’t know the half of it. Grey said nothing.

“Mind if I ask you a question?” Paulson lifted his chin toward Grey’s plate. “Don’t let me interrupt. You can go on and finish while we talk.”

“I’m done,” Grey said. “I have to go to work.”

“How’s the pie?”

“You want to ask me about the pie?”

“The pie? No.” Paulson shook his head. “I was just being polite. That would be an example of what’s called small talk.”

Grey wondered what he wanted. The soldiers never said word one to him, and here was this guy, Paulson, giving him etiquette lessons like the cameras weren’t looking straight at them.

“It’s good,” Grey managed. “I like the lemon.”

“Enough with the pie. I couldn’t give two shits about the pie.”

Grey gripped the sides of his tray. “I gotta go,” he said, but as he started to rise, Paulson dropped a hand on his wrist. Grey could feel, in just that one touch, how strong the man was, as if the muscles of his arms were hung on bars of iron.

“Sit. The fuck. Down.”

Grey sat. The room suddenly felt empty to him. He glanced past Paulson and saw that this was so, or nearly: most of the tables were empty. Just a couple of techs on the far side of the room, sipping coffee from throw-away cups. Where had everybody gone?

“You see, we know who you fellas are, Grey,” Paulson said with a quiet firmness. He was leaning over the table, his hand still on Grey’s wrist. “We know what you all did, is what I’m saying. Little boys, or whatever. I say God bless, each to his own gifts. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. You follow me?”

Grey said nothing.

“Not everybody feels the way I do, but that’s my opinion. Last time I checked it was still a free country.” He shifted in his chair, bringing his face even closer. “I knew a guy, in high school? Used to put cookie dough on his joint and let the dog lick it off. So you want to nail some little kid, you go right ahead. Personally I don’t get it, but your business is your business.”

Grey felt ill. “I’m sorry,” he managed. “I really gotta go.”

“Where do you have to go, Grey?”

“Where?” He tried to swallow. “To work. I have to go to work.”

“No you don’t.” Finally releasing Grey’s wrist, Paulson took a spoon from Grey’s tray and began to twirl it on the tabletop with the point of his index finger. “You’ve got three hours till your shift. I can tell time, Grey. We’re chatting here, goddamnit.”

Grey watched the spoon, waiting for Paulson to say something else. He suddenly needed a smoke with every molecule of his body, a force like possession. “What do you want from me?”

Paulson gave the spoon a final spin. “What do I want, Grey? That’s the question, isn’t it? I do want something, you’re right about that.” He leaned toward Grey, making a “come closer” gesture with his index finger. His voice, when he spoke, was just above a whisper. “What I want is for you to tell me about Level Four.”

Grey felt his insides drop, like he’d placed a foot on a step that wasn’t there.

“I just clean. I’m a janitor.”

“Pardon me,” Paulson said. “But no. I don’t buy that for a second.”

Grey thought again of the cameras. “Richards—”

Paulson snorted. “Oh, fuck him.” He looked up at the camera, gave a little wave, then slowly rotated his hand, clenching all but his middle finger. He held it that way for a few seconds.

“You think anybody’s actually watching those things? All day, every day, listening to us, watching what we do?”

“There’s nothing down there. I swear.”

Paulson shook his head slowly; Grey saw that wild look in his eyes again. “We both know that’s bullshit, so can we please? Let’s be honest with each other.”

“I just clean,” Grey said weakly. “I’m just here to work.”

Paulson said nothing. The room was so quiet Grey thought he could hear his own heart beating.

“Tell me something. You sleep okay, Grey?”

“What?”

Paulson’s eyes narrowed with menace. “I’m asking, do … you … sleep … okay?”

“I guess,” he managed. “Sure, I sleep.”

Paulson gave a little fatalistic laugh. He leaned back and rocked his eyes toward the ceiling. “You guess. You guess.”

“I don’t know why you’re asking me this stuff.”

Paulson exhaled sharply. “Dreams, Grey.” He pushed his face close to Grey’s. “I’m talking about dreams. You fellas do dream, don’t you? Well, I sure as hell dream. All goddamn night long. One after the other. I am dreaming some crazy shit.”

Crazy, Grey thought; that just about summed the situation up, right there. Paulson was crazy. The wheels weren’t on the road anymore, the oars were out of the water. Too many months on the mountain, maybe, too many days of cold and snow. Grey had known guys like that in Beeville, fine when they got there but who, before even a few months had gone by, couldn’t string two sentences together that made a lick of sense.

“Want to know what I dream about, Grey? Go on. Take a guess.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Take a fucking guess.”

Grey looked down at the table. He could feel the cameras watching—could feel Richards, somewhere, taking all of this in. He thought: Please. For godsakes. No more questions.

“I don’t … know.”

“You don’t.”

He shook his head, his eyes still averted. “No.”

“Then I’ll tell you,” Paulson said quietly. “I dream about you.”

For a moment neither spoke. Paulson was crazy, Grey thought. Crazy crazy crazy.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “There’s really nothing down there.”

He made to leave again, waiting to feel Paulson’s hand on his elbow, stopping him.

“Fine,” Paulson said, and gave a little wave. “I’m done for now. Get out of here.” He twisted in his chair to look up at Grey, standing with his tray. “I’ll tell you a secret, though. You want to hear it?”

Grey shook his head.

“You know those two sweeps who left?”

“Who?”

“You know those guys.” Paulson frowned. “The fat ones. Dumbshit and his friend.”

“Jack and Sam.”

“Right.” Paulson’s eyes drifted. “I never did get the names. I guess you could say the names didn’t come with the deal.”

Grey waited for Paulson to say something else. “What about them?”

“Well, I hope they weren’t friends of yours. Because here’s a little bulletin. They’re dead.” Paulson rose; he didn’t look at Grey as he spoke. “We’re all dead.”

It was dark, and Carter was afraid.

He was somewhere down below, way down; he’d seen four buttons on the elevator, the numbers running backward, like the buttons in an underground garage. By the time they’d put him in there on the gurney, he was woozy and feeling no pain—they’d given him something, some kind of shot that made him sleepy but not actually asleep, so he’d felt it a little, what they were doing to the back of his neck. Cutting there, putting something in. Restraints on his wrists and feet—to make him comfortable, they said. Then they’d wheeled him to the elevator and that was the last thing he remembered, the buttons, and somebody’s finger pushing the one that said L4. The guy with the gun, Richards, had never come back like he’d promised.

Now he was awake, and though he couldn’t say for sure, he felt like he was down, way down in the hole; he was still bound at the wrists and ankles and probably his waist, too. The room was cold and dark, but he could see lights blinking somewhere, he couldn’t tell how far, and hear the sound of a fan blowing air. He couldn’t remember much of the conversation he’d had with the men before they’d brought him down. They’d weighed him, Carter remembered that, and done other things like any doctor would do, taking his blood pressure and asking him to pee in a cup and tapping his knees with the hammer and peering inside his nose and mouth. Then they’d put the tube in the back of his hand—that hurt, that hurt like hell, he remembered saying so, God damn—and hooked the tube up to the bag on the hanger, and the rest was all a blur. He recalled a funny light, glowing bright red on the tip of a pen, and all the faces around him suddenly wearing masks, one of them saying, though he couldn’t tell which one, “This is just the laser, Mr. Carter. You may feel a little pressure.” Now, in the dark, he remembered thinking, before his brain had gone all watery and far away, that God had played one last joke on him and maybe this was his ride to the needle after all. He’d wondered if he’d be seeing Jesus soon or Mrs. Wood or the Devil his own self.

But he hadn’t died, all he’d done was sleep, though he didn’t know how long. His mind had drifted for a while, out of one kind of darkness and into another, like he was walking through a house without lights; and with nothing to look at now, he had no way to get his bearings. He couldn’t tell up from down. He hurt all over and his tongue felt like a balled-up sock in his mouth, or some strange furry animal, burrowing there. The back of his neck, where it met his shoulder blades, was humming with pain. He lifted his head to look around, but all he could see were some little points of light—red lights, like the one on the pen. He couldn’t tell how far away they were or how big. They could have been the lights of a distant city for all he knew.

Wolgast: the name floated up to his mind out of the darkness. Something about Wolgast, that thing he’d said, about time being like an ocean and his to give. I can give you all the time in the world, Anthony. An ocean of time. Like he knew what was in the deepest place of Carter’s heart, like they hadn’t just met but had known each other for years. Nobody had talked to Anthony like that for as long as he could remember.

It made him think of the day that had started it all, like the two were of a piece. June: it was June; he remembered that. June, the air under the freeway sizzling hot, and Carter, standing in a wedge of dirty shade and holding his cardboard sign over his chest—HUNGRY, ANYTHING WILL HELP, GOD BLESS YOU—had watched as the car, a black Denali, drew up to the curb. The passenger window opened: not just the usual crack, so whoever was inside could pass him a few coins or a folded bill without their fingers even touching his, but gliding all the way down in a single, liquid motion, so that Carter’s reflection in the window’s dark tint fell like a curtain in reverse—like a hole had opened in the world, revealing a secret room within. The hour was just noon, the lunchtime traffic building on the surface roads and on the West Loop, which banged in a tight rhythm over his head, like a long clicking line of freight cars.

“Hello?” the driver was calling. A woman’s voice, straining over the roar of cars and the echoing acoustics under the freeway. “Hello there? Sir! Excuse me, sir!”

As he stepped forward to the open window, Carter could feel the cool air of the inside of the car on his face; could smell the sweet smokiness of new leather and then, closer still, the scent of the woman’s perfume. She was leaning toward the passenger window, her body straining against her seat belt, sunglasses perched on top of her head. A white woman, of course. He’d known that even before he looked. The black Denali with its shining paint job and huge gleaming grille. The eastbound lane on San Felipe, connecting the Galleria with River Oaks, where the big houses were. The woman was young, though, younger than he would have thought for a car like that, thirty at the most, and wearing what looked like tennis clothes, a white skirt and top that matched, her skin moist and shining. Her arms were lean and strong and coppered by the sun. Straight hair, blond with streaks of a darker color, pulled back from the planes of her face, her delicate nose and well-cut cheekbones. No jewelry he could see except a ring, a diamond fat as a tooth. He knew he shouldn’t look any closer, but he couldn’t stop himself; he let his eyes skim through the back of the car. He saw a baby seat, empty, with brightly colored plush toys hanging over it and beside it a large shopping bag that was made of paper but looked like metal. The name of the store, Nordstrom, was written on the bag.

“Whatever you can give,” Carter muttered. “God bless you.”

Her purse, a fat leather satchel, was resting on her lap. She began tossing the contents out onto the seat: a tube of lipstick, an address book, a tiny, jewel-like phone. “I want to give you something,” she was saying. “Would a twenty be enough? Is that what people do? I don’t know.”

“God bless you now.” The light, Carter knew, was about to change. “Whatever you can do.”

She withdrew her wallet just as, behind them, they heard the first impatient honk. The woman turned her head quickly at the sound, then looked up at the traffic signal, now green. “Oh, damnit, damnit.” She was frantically riffling through the wallet, a huge thing the size of a book, with snaps and zippers and compartments crammed with slips of paper. “I don’t know,” she was saying, “I don’t know.”

More honking, and then, with a roar, the vehicle behind her, a red Mercedes, accelerated to jam itself across the middle lane, cutting off an SUV. The driver of the SUV slammed on his brakes and leaned on his horn.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the woman kept saying. She was looking at the wallet like it was a locked door she couldn’t find the key to open. “It’s all plastic in here, I thought I had a twenty, maybe it was a ten, oh goddamnit, goddamnit … ”

“Hey, asshole!” A man leaned his head from the window of a big pickup, two cars back. “Can’t you see the light? Get out of the road!”

“’Sall right,” Anthony said, backing away. “You should go.”

“You heard me?” the man cried. More long blasts of the horn. He waved a bare arm out the window. “Get outta the fucking way!”

The woman arched her back to look into the rearview. Her eyes grew very wide. “Shut up!” she cried bitterly. She hit the steering wheel with her fists. “Jesus, just shut up!”

“Lady, move your fucking car!”

“I wanted to give you something. That’s all I wanted. Why should it be so hard, just to do this one thing, I wanted to help … ”

Carter knew it was time to run. He could see how the rest was going to unfold: the car door flying open; the furious footsteps coming toward him; a man’s face pressed close to Carter’s, sneering—You bothering this lady? What you think you’re doing, fella?—and then more men, who knew how many, there were always plenty of men when the time came, and no matter what the woman said, she wouldn’t be able to help him, they’d see what they wanted to see: a black man and a white woman with a baby seat and shopping bags, her wallet open in her lap.

“Please,” he said. “Lady, you got to go.”

The door of the pickup swung open, disgorging a huge red-faced man in jeans and a T-shirt, with hands big as catcher’s mitts. He’d crush Carter like a bug.

“Hey!” he yelled, pointing. His big round belt buckle gleamed in the sunshine. “You there!”

The woman lifted her eyes to the mirror and saw what Carter did: the man was holding a gun. “Oh my God, oh my God!” she cried.

“He’s carjacking her! That little nigger’s stealing her car!”

Carter was frozen. It was all bearing down on him, a furious roar, the whole world honking and shouting and coming to get him, coming to get him at last. The woman reached quickly across the passenger seat and opened the door.

“Get in!”

Still he couldn’t move.

“Do it!” she shouted. “Get in the car!”

And for some reason, he did. He dropped his sign and got in fast and slammed the door behind him. The woman hit the gas, jumping the light, which had turned from green to red again. Cars swerved all around them as they rocketed through the intersection. For a second Carter thought they were going to crash for sure and closed his eyes tight, bracing himself for the impact. But nothing happened; everybody missed.

It was, he thought, the damnedest thing. They shot out from under the freeway into sunshine again, the woman driving so fast, it was like she’d forgotten he was there. They hit some railroad tracks and the Denali bounced so high he felt his head actually touch the ceiling. It seemed to jar her, too; she hit the brakes, too hard, sending him pitching forward against the dash, then turned the wheel and pulled into a parking lot with a dry cleaner’s and a Shipley Do-Nuts. And without looking at Anthony or saying a word to him, she dropped her head onto the steering wheel and began to cry.

He’d never seen a white woman cry before, not up close, just movies and TV. In the sealed cabin of the Denali, he could smell her tears, like melting wax, and the clean smell of her hair. Then he realized he could smell himself, too, which he hadn’t done in a long time, and the smell was nothing good. It was bad, really bad, like spoiled meat and sour milk, and he looked down at his body, his dirty hands and arms and the same T-shirt and jeans he’d worn for days and days, and felt ashamed.

After some time she lifted her face off the wheel and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “What’s your name?”

“Anthony.”

For a moment, Carter wondered if maybe she was going to drive him straight to the police. The car was so clean and new he felt like a big dirty stain sitting there. But if she could smell him, she didn’t show it any.

“I can get out here,” Carter said. “I’m sorry to have caused you trouble like I did.”

“You? What did you do? You didn’t do anything.” She took in a long breath, tilted her head back against the headrest, and closed her eyes. “Jesus, my husband’s going to kill me. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Rachel, what were you thinking?”

She seemed angry, and Carter guessed she was waiting for him to just get out on his own. They were a few blocks north of Richmond; from there he could catch a bus back to the place he’d been sleeping, a vacant lot down on Westpark beside the recycling center. It was a good spot, he’d had no trouble there, and if it rained the people at the center let him sleep in one of the empty garages. He had a little over ten dollars on him, some bills and change from his morning under the 610—enough to get home with, and buy something to eat.

He put his hand on the door.

“No,” she said quickly. “Don’t go.” She turned toward him. Her eyes, puffy from crying, searched his face. “You have to tell me if you meant it.”

Carter drew a blank. “Ma’am?”

“What you wrote on the sign. What you said. ‘God bless you.’ I heard you say it. Because the thing is,” the woman said, not waiting for his answer, “I don’t feel blessed, Anthony.” She gave a haunted laugh, showing a row of tiny, pearl-like teeth. “Isn’t that strange? I should, but I just don’t. I feel awful. I feel awful all the time.”

Carter didn’t know what to say. How could a white lady like her feel awful? In the corner of his eye, he could see the empty baby seat in back, with its bright array of toys, and he wondered where the child was now. Maybe he should say something about her having a baby, how nice that must be for her. Folks liked having babies in his experience, women especially.

“It doesn’t matter,” the woman said. She was staring vacantly out the windshield toward the doughnut shop. “I know what you’re thinking. You don’t have to say anything. I probably just seem like some crazy woman.”

“You seems all right to me.”

She laughed again, bitterly. “Well that’s just it, isn’t it? That’s the thing. I seem all right. You can ask anybody. Rachel Wood has everything a person could want. Rachel Wood seems perfectly all right … ”

For a minute they just sat there, the woman quietly crying and staring woefully into space, Carter still wondering if he should get out of the car or not. But the lady was upset, and it felt wrong to leave her like that. He wondered if she wanted him to feel sorry for her. Rachel Wood: he guessed that was her name, that she was talking about herself. But he couldn’t say for sure. Maybe Rachel Wood was a friend of hers, or somebody who was looking after the baby. He knew he’d have to go sooner or later. Whatever mood had taken her would pass, and she’d figure out she’d just about gotten herself shot for this smelly nigger who was sitting in her car. But for the moment, the feel of cool air on his face from the dashboard vents and the woman’s strange, sad silence were enough to keep him where he was.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 472